


Aid to the Blind

by lielabell



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Character Study, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-20
Updated: 2011-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-27 15:17:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/297238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lielabell/pseuds/lielabell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You close your eyes, focusing on the crunch of his toast (each bite chewed seven times) and the clink of his cup against the saucer (small sips, it will take forty-five of them to drain the cup completely).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aid to the Blind

Sometimes you wonder if this is what going blind is like. A bright light you wince away from, a shape of a man. That voice you know, that voice you love, though you refuse to admit it to anyone, least of all yourself. Small talk, hands fluttering as he crosses the room. A quick flash of a smile, teeth white against the dull pink of his lips.

You narrow your eyes, fingers steepled, and pretend to ignore him.

He tuts and clucks and flutters some more, telling you things you already know. A quick bite with Sarah for lunch. A ghastly interview with the mother of a soon-to-be mother, an already awkward conversation made more so by the silent weeping of the daughter -- fifteen and far too young, he says with a sigh, but old enough for trouble. A knee jarred just enough to cause pain but not enough to actually require attention. And tea. Endless amounts of tea. But that he doesn't see fit to mention.

You listen and listen well, though he doesn't know it, storing his words up like priceless treasures to repeat over and over in your mind, examining them the way a child would her mother's baubles.

He huffs out an amused breath, says something inane about talking to the walls, and then settles himself at the table, tea and toast and the evening post open in front of him. Silent, in so much as anyone is.

You close your eyes, focusing on the crunch of his toast (each bite chewed seven times) and the clink of his cup against the saucer (small sips, it will take forty-five of them to drain the cup completely) and you wonder: is this what it's like to go blind? To have your foremost sense blunted until you lose your ability to focus completely on anything other than the myriad of facts that make up John Watson?


End file.
